


Those Days are Gone & My Heart is Breaking

by MissMagpie



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Original Character-centric, Season/Series 10, Songfic, To Be Continued...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-13 06:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21239765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMagpie/pseuds/MissMagpie
Summary: At the end of the world, a librarian shows up on the doorsteps of Alexandria. She stays longer than expected.





	Those Days are Gone & My Heart is Breaking

_ Hey, Danny-boy, I was thinking of our crew, _

_ But thinking just makes me sad, and that’s why I write to you, _

_ How do you do? _

_ There’s been years between us... _

Jean woke with a song stuck in her head. Some folk song played with two cords on the guitar; the one her dad used to play by campfires when she was twelve. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, as if that would quell the melody in her head. The words were there, repeating on an endless loop. The tune was ...iffy. She was never much of a musician, but humming to herself was better than humming to the dead.

_Didn’t we have big ideas when our school was done? _

_ We’d leave our smaller minds and move out to Oregon, _

_ But I was the only one, _

_ Who went the road less taken… _

She’d spent the night in an old comic book shop. Piles of colorful papers surrounded her, with bright characters and curly q’s for letters. Most were strewn about, open and half read. Her body ached, even as she sat up from the old lumpy couch she’d made into a bed. She read the title of whatever was closest and tossed aside a paperback edition of _ Seduction of the Innocent _ , whatever that was. She glanced disappointed at a ceramic **Comic Books, Now!** sign, half-fallen from the ceiling. Jean yawned. She’d spent three days trying to find this place and most of the stuff was in Japanese.

“Who reads comic books, anyways?” Jean said, ruffling the neck of the German Shepherd that laid beside her and giving him a large smooch on his head. “Huh, Charlie?”

Jean yawned, groping aimlessly for the prosthetic leg she’d laid beside the couch the night before. She never managed to go far without it; It was a leg, after all. She rolled up her pant leg, the left one, right below the knee. Her stump was old, the scars long faded and the pain long forgotten. By now, it was habit. She stood up and walked to the front of the store. Daylight streamed in from the poorly boarded up windows of the storefront, reflecting off the dust like fireflies. 

“Good morning, girl.” She gave Beatrice a firm pat on the rear.

Her horse, a Clydesdale mare, stood half asleep in between a magazine rack and a table top display piled high with cheap figurines. She picked one up and blew the dust away. They were plastic, with big heads and round black eyes. These things never made sense to her. Collectibles, she figured, from some video game she’d never play, from a world that had been long gone. She spent a few minutes untangling a mess of leather straps and metal pieces, cursing the fool who invented headphones and yarn. She slipped the bit into Beatrice’s mouth, cooing as she felt the warm breath on her skin.

“Time to get to work.” She said aloud, patting her neck.

A few minutes later, the horse was harnessed and Charlie was wagging his tail by the front door. Jean slung a large duffel bag over shoulder, stuffed with what she could salvage from the shelves. Archie, Calvin and Hobbs, a few X-Men. Cult classics may have been okay before the world ended, but now? Now, it was best sellers only. What could she trade? Peddle? What made life worth living again, even after the dead got greedy?

_ Ding _! A bell chimed as she swung open the front door. A red pick-up truck laid outside, parked on the curb. It was old and rusty, with far more dents in it than anyone who loved a vehicle should allow. The truck had no engine, but four solid tires and a strong horse had gotten her this far. 

She hitched Beatrice to the front axle, and threw her backpack of supplies in the front seat. All business, she unlatched the back and added the duffel to the hoard. Hundreds of books -three hundred and twenty seven, to be exact- laid in the bed, stacked on top of each other in neat little rows. Romance; Pulp fiction. Stephen King and Shakespeare, John Grisham and Jane Eyre. She had it all, right there, at the end of the world. This was her work.

“Well,” She smiled, proud. “Let’s get at her.”

Jean clicked her tongue, stirring Beatrice onward. The beast complained with a flick of her tail, but, nonetheless, the truck creeped onward. The tires groaned against the pavement, slow and steady. 

_ I met a girl and I swept her off her feet, _

_ Made her promises I never meant to keep, _

_ There’s a mean streak in me. _

_ Inside a storm was raging._

Jean liked strip malls. They reminded her of lazy Sundays with friends, of shopping and warm, salted pretzels. Bev Theriot snuck her into her first R-rated movie, a bottle of New Amsterdam hidden in her purse. Percy Burnette gave her her first kiss, back before she was set to graduate high school. It was a nice kiss, right before he honked her boob with his clammy hands. Then the world ended. Then, they all died. Then, they walked again.

Jean walked alongside Beatrice, pulling the truck through the parking lot of what used to be _ The River Ranch Shops on Main _. As an outdoor mall, it looked bougie, with white pavement and long-dry fountains: a relic of the days when all most people had to worry about was the morning barista messing up their coffee order. Weeds grew up from cracks in the sidewalk. She passed storefronts, the glass bashed inwards and their stuff long raided. Jean felt the crunch of glass under her boots.

“Go around, Charlie.” Jean said, waving her dog away, as she stepped around a few abandoned television sets. He padded off around the corner of a candle shop, tail wagging. 

Jean let go of the reins and walked up to the shop, peering in. She drew the knife from her belt, but heard nothing but silence. No dead things. Good. She pointed from her eyes back to Beatrice, with mock seriousness.

“No wild parties while I’m gone, okay?” 

Jean kicked out the last bit of glass from the shop’s storefront and stepped up on to the platform, hopping down on the other side. Shelves leaned on their sides, broken, while baskets of fruit and cheese laid rotten in their places. The smell of mildew was refreshing. 

Whistling, she plucked an auburn candle from a shelf and popped the lid. She took a big whiff and promptly fell into a fit of wheezing as the abrasive scent of cinnamon and clove hit her nostrils. 

“Smells like ass.” She said, coughing, promptly putting the candle down.

Charlie was barking in the distance. Her heart stopped. Jean vaulted over the storefront door in a single leap, drawing her knife as she raced around the corner.Charlie was there, holding his ground with teeth bared as a single walker strode towards him. She silenced the dog with a whistle. It was a man, or what used to be a man, dressed in what used to be a blue polo shirt. His skin sagged, gray and rotten, as his black hair fell off in clumps. A wet gurgle erupted from his lips as he towards her, arms extended, snapping with his teeth.

Jean squared off, quickly brushing his arms aside as she lunged forward. The knife sunk deep into the monster’s skull with a sickening sound. The arms went limp and he crumpled to the floor, quick and easy. 

How many times had she done this? She avoided walkers on the best of days, but even then, she’d lost count long ago. She ripped her knife from the man’s skull, pausing as she noticed the logo embroidered on his shirt. 

She smiled, wiping her blade on the man’s shirt. She scanned the shops up and down the street and raced towards a street sign, only to dart around another corner. She passed clothing stores and jewelry stores and shoe stores, uninterested. Charlie followed at her heels, tail wagging. And at last, she found it.** Princess Mia’s Pet Paws Boutique.**

“Scope it out, Charlie.” Her dog darted into the boutique. She waited for the sound of barking. Silence. She smiled.

Jean darted in, knife still drawn. She passed rows of bird seed and fish tanks, stepping gingerly down the aisles and holding out hope. She stopped at a large cardboard cutout of a Labrador retriever, only to hear the sound of rustling from behind. 

Charlie was there, garfing down kibble. Open bags of dog chow laid torn open, the small brown niblets sprayed out on the grimy floor. She scooped Charlie up in her arms, laughing and hollering. She spun him around in glee. Like all good dogs, he took it in stride. 

_ She had a form like no other girl in town, _

_ We had a baby boy, but I couldn’t stick around. _

_ I couldn’t be tied down. _

_ That’s just the way I was thinking. _

_ Those days are gone and my heart is aching... _

_ Thought I deserved so much more than work could pay, _

_ I drove containers to BC from Monterrey, _

_ It was a long way, _

_ On pins and needles. _

“Stop right there!” 

Jean felt the gun at the back of her neck. It was cold and metallic. Yep, definitely a gun. Loaded? Probably not. But, Jean did enjoy having her brains inside her head, so she figured it was best to play along. 

“Drop it.” 

The duffel bag in Jean’s hands fell to the ground with a thud. She raised her hands, not daring to move. Two men stood on either side of her, both of them large, ragged, and desperate. They could’ve been twins, each with black hair and unkempt beards. They’d snuck up on her, of course, as she exited an old Winnebago RV on the interstate outside Atlanta. You’d be surprised what people took with them when the evacuations started. People were panicking, watching the sky catch on fire and the city crash down around them. Everything was drowning in itself, but, they still had time for Stephen King. 

One of the highwaymen snatched the duffel from the ground and undid the zipper. He tossed a couple paperbacks to the side and they hit the concrete with a thud.

“What the fuck?” He said, exasperated. Tweedle Dee abandoned the bag and opened the bed of the truck, pulling the tarp aside. “It’s just fucking books!”

Tweedle Dum dug the barrel of the gun into the back of Jean’s neck. “Listen, lady. I’m not gonna repeat myself. Give us your damn food!”

“I don’t have any.” Jean said, calmly. “I trade books, that’s what I do.”

“Bullshit.” She heard the click of the gun. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Charlie crouched, ears pointed back as he snuck through the grass. He wasn’t growling, not yet. 

“You know, you look like a man who enjoys Dan Brown.” She said. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ve got the entire _ Da Vinci Code _in the back there. All five books. They’re yours, free as holy water on Sunday. What do you say?”

They both paused. She smiled a broad smile, determined to keep the attention on her. “We’ll call it a scratch, both of us. I’m not interested in dying today, boys, and I’m sure you’re not either.”

They paused again. At last, he grumbled, “Where the fuck are they?”

“2nd row, 3rd stack from the left.” 

Tweedle Dee hopped in the back of her truck, upending her carefully crafted post-apocalypse Dewey Decimal system. Beatrice flicked her tail uneasily at the ruckus. Jean held her breath; her heart fluttered with nervous hope. _ Don’t take the horse, don’t take the horse… _

“Give us the horse.”

_ Nope. _Without hesitation, Jean whistled. Charlie lunged forward. His paws hit the pavement and he jumped, toppling Tweedle Dee over the side of the truck and ripping into his torso. Jean struck backwards with her elbow and latched onto Tweedle Dum’s arm. A shot rang out and her ears vibrated at the blast. She twisted, bringing the man down to his knees. He screamed as his shoulder threatened to pop out of its socket. The gun slipped from his fingers. Jean turned, fired two shots, and the man slumped to the ground, missing the important bits of his head.

She aimed the gun at Tweedle Dee, who was now leaning against a tire with a nice Charlie-sized wound on his shoulder. Blood was oozing from the wound and quickly soaking his shirt. Jean could see the white of bone. 

“Take the books and leave, asshole!” She yelled, wide-eyed, trying to emulate her best bitch-got-nothing-to-lose expression.

Tweedle Dee stumbled to his feet and ran limping from the truck. Charlie barked after him, but never left her side as he disappeared from view. Jean caught her breath, leaning on the back of the truck as she stared at the dead body at her feet. She sighed, disappointed, and tossed the gun into the bushes. She wiped the sweat from her brow, only to spot a red & gold novel laying on the ground.

“Hey!” She called after her attacker, “You forgot book one!”

_She wrote me letters, but I never opened one, _

_ She met some other man and gave his name to my son, _

_ I guess the damage is done. _

_ And there’s no way I can fake it. _

_ Those days are gone and my heart is breaking... _

Jean sat on the roof of the truck, riding high and mighty as Beatrice pulled the lot of them down down the road at a whopping five miles an hour. Charlie trotted alongside the truck, tongue wagging. Jean groaned as they passed a sign for what-used-to-be I-10, spray painted over with a bright yellow ‘B’. They’d passed the same sign over an hour ago.

“I’m tired of looking at trees, Beatrice.” She said, to herself mostly.

As if on cue, Charlie stopped in his tracks and started barking. A Walker lurched out from a roadside ditch, dragging itself towards her with broken fingers. Its skin sloughed off in sheets, crispy and red from the Georgia sun. Charlie stood his ground, lips curled back as he growled at the dead creature. Jean whistled sharply to silence the dog. She didn’t bother to get off the truck. Instead, she took the knife from her side and, with a smirk, lined up her shot. She balanced the blade in her fingers and chucked it. It spun, blade over handle, and sunk into the walker’s head. 

“You see that!” She threw her hands in the air, looking from Beatrice to Charlie. They remained unimpressed. 

Jean brought the carriage to a stop and jumped off the truck. She braced the walker’s head with her foot and, with a sickening lurch, pulled the knife from its skull.

“Like the sword from the fucking stone.” 

Charlie stood stiff beside her, every muscle tensed. The hairs on his tail stood on edge as he stared back into the trees, seemingly at nothing. The rustle of leaves disturbed her. A soft, gurgly snarl and Jean turned to see another Walker creep out from the trees, about 30 yards away. 

It was a man, this time, with a droopy face and long, dry hair. He had style at least, dressed in dirty jeans and old leather duster. A red scarf hung loosely around his neck. With one haggard step and another, he crept towards her, staring directly at her. It was lifeless and haunting, as if his eyes had purpose. Her stomach churned. This was wrong.

Another joined him, falling in line by his side. And, then another. And, another. A rightful sense of fear dawned on Jean as a horde of twenty Walkers staggered to the road.

“Well, those aren’t trees.” She said, spooked. 

Jean backed up, sheathing her knife, and hopped up on the truck. With a whistle, Charlie jumped in the back, watching the approaching dead from between stacks of Sherlock Holmes and Neil Gaiman. With a flick of the reins, Beatrice picked up into a trot and Jean watched, unnerved, as the three of them left the dead far behind.

_ Always thought my heart to be a dark horse, _

_ Laying low ‘til race day came along, _

_ Lately my heart’s feeling like a dart board, _

_ And that’s not something I had planned at all..._

A bridge. 

Jean had stopped the truck at the precipice of ruined bridge. It was wooden, or it used to be, before whatever happened had happened. A giant gash had rendered it impassable, leaving the concrete foundation on either side black and smoldering. The white curls of a river ran underneath, fat and flowing from the recent rain. Splinters of wood and chunks of concrete littered its banks, along with the charred remains of the dead. She examined the trees, hoping to see people. A familiar feeling stirred in her gut, as she turned Beatrice back the way they came. She was close. 

A bridge with a story. 

_ Danny, there’s no limit to the steps I could retrace, _

_ But I’ve got a job cooking eggs at my friend’s place. _

_ It’s no disgrace, _

_ To make an honest living... _

Tomatoes and bread. That’s what she had for lunch, sitting on the back of the truck in the middle of a grassy field. This morning, she’d traded a copy of _ The Princess Bride _for an entire sack of tomatoes and had been living it up ever since. He’d been nice, Jean thought, even with the ponytail and goatee. He had an infectious smile and he believed her when she’d said she was just passing through. Jean could tell she’d caught him in the middle of something. A date, he said, with a bashful smile. A secret. They talked for an hour and he pointed her in the right direction. We’d meet again, he said. He had waved and she had waved back. 

The sun beat down on her, gentle than summer days, the wind cool, and she took a moment to enjoy the weather. Beatrice grazed content, free of the harness and carriage. She smiled, mouth full of food. Charlie watched her eat, ears perked.

“Stop begging.” She said, swallowing. He licked his chops in response.

Jean laughed and gave in, grabbing a handful of kibble from her backpack. She tossed him a piece and he caught it mid-air. She giggled, doing it again. Charlie whined, happy, but wanting more. Jean sighed and patted the bed of the truck. Charlie jumped up and began chowing down, scarfing down the remaining kibble she held in her hands. He licked her face and she grimaced at the deadly combination of slobber and bad breath. 

A sight caught her eye, on the ridge-line of a hill far off on the horizon. A dozen Walkers, with their twirling arms and shambling legs, moved as a group, oblivious to the sunshine. Jean stilled, hypnotized, pushing Charlie away. There. That man, again, with the red scarf... Walkers shuffled aimlessly, dead and drifting, all around him. The dead spun in circles, their arms loose, but, still, he stared lifelessly in her direction.

Jean lowered her binoculars, afraid for the first time in a long time. She jumped up off the bed of the truck and grabbed Beatrice, pulling her to the front of the truck. But, she paused, watching the dead approach. They were following her. 

“Let’s get the hell out of here.” 

_ And if it makes you blue, I hope I did not dwell, _

_ And if this gets to you, I hope it finds you well, _

_ There’s not much else... _

_ Out here it’s been raining. _

Walls were a rarity. Civilization was a miracle. But, Jean made her living off the hope of good people. And, nowadays, when the dead rise and roam, good people plant crops. It had taken her a month to get to this part of the country, and three days to find the place, but she was here. 

**Alexandria: Mercy for the lost. Vengeance for the plunderers.** She read the words, painted on the metal lining of the entrance. She was neither, but nevertheless, she approached on foot, leading Beatrice by the reins. The blades of a windmill, slowly turning, peaked out above metal walls. Large brownstone apartments stood tall, but pristine, and she could hear the flow of water. 

They had noticed her. Guards scurried; binoculars were raised. A woman with wild, red hair barked an order at a portly gentleman, who quickly ran off, disappearing behind the walls. They looked at her with suspicion, of course. Jean always expected that. 

A truck, a horse, and a dog: that’s all she had in the world. She didn’t carry a gun. She didn’t have much food. She trusted in people and the nature of good people. At last, a black woman, hair done up in braids, appeared, eyes locked on her. She was muscular. She was a leader. Jean smiled, eager to see new faces. Hope would find a way. It always did.

“Hello.” She said, smiling.

_Those days are here, and my heart is waiting._

**Author's Note:**

> I had a song stuck in my head for about two weeks and then this came out of it. This idea for a TWD original character has been in my head for a long time, so I thought it was about time to put pen to paper.
> 
> I'm not sure if this is gonna end up going anywhere, but it might. Comments are always appreciated!
> 
> Song Credit: Those Days are Gone & My Heart is Breaking by Barton Carroll


End file.
